He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. His room was last at the end of one winding corner. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son.
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